


Burning

by soulless_lover



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Ciel POV, Drabble, Gratuitous Pwipping, I WILL SHIP IT IN HELL, M/M, POV First Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Professor Michaelis, Shota, Tumblr Prompt, Weston School Arc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 15:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4143675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulless_lover/pseuds/soulless_lover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All day it’s been like this: his smiles and his stares carry a kind of heat that sinks into my skin and makes me burn from the inside out; he brushes against me subtly as he passes my desk, his robes rustling as they graze my cheek; he leans over my shoulder, seemingly to correct my work as I write - but I feel him pressing against me, hear the soft rush of air as he inhales my scent. He’s savoring me, like a fine meal that makes his mouth water. I’d be unnerved if I weren’t so bloody captivated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning

**Author's Note:**

> written for an anonymous Tumblr prompt: "Sebastian is in heat - don't ask why, it just kind of happens."
> 
> minimally edited.

I don’t know what’s caused it, but it’s there. I can see it, burning in those hellfire eyes every time he looks up from his book and glances my way - and it has completely muddled my wits. I can’t concentrate. I can’t think clearly. I can hardly breathe. How in the hell am I supposed to memorize and recite a bunch of Latin poetry when all I can manage to formulate in my foggy brain is a jumble of lustful images? And every one of them involves the professor currently smirking at me over the rims of his spectacles, damn him.

All day it’s been like this: his smiles and his stares carry a kind of heat that sinks into my skin and makes me burn from the inside out; he brushes against me subtly as he passes my desk, his robes rustling as they graze my cheek; he leans over my shoulder, seemingly to correct my work as I write - but I feel him pressing against me, hear the soft rush of air as he inhales my scent. He’s savoring me, like a fine meal that makes his mouth water. I’d be unnerved if I weren’t so bloody captivated.

“Well, Phantomhive? Have you an answer, or are you going to stand there in a daze all afternoon?”

“Wha–?”

He’s sitting at his desk, his long legs crossed beneath his cassock and pulpit robe, his gaze practically scorching me around the edges. “Is there a reason you couldn’t recite your lesson?”

I’m in his office, being scolded for drawing a blank when asked to recite in class today. “Perhaps it was so boring that I forgot everything at once.”

“I see.” His mouth turns up at the corners, showing the very tips of his sharp teeth. “Are all my lessons so dull, Mr. Phantomhive?”

What is he playing at? “Usually, yes.”

He gets up and walks past me, hopefully to make tea. “I see.”

“Oh? And what exactly _do_ you see, _Professor Michaelis?”_ I turn to look at him - just in time to see him lock the office door.

“What do I see, Phantomhive?” He lunges at me, snatching me up from the chair and bending me backward over the desk in a flash; it happens so quickly that I’ve scarcely had time to breathe, and I’m panting as I stare up at him. _“You.”_

What happens next is a blur of heat and soft sound: his efficient hands are prying open the buttons of my waistcoat and shirt; my hands are buried in his hair, pulling at the glossy strands; his open mouth is hot and wet on my throat, his fingers tweaking my nipples; the rosary around his neck dangles between us to spill coldly across my bare skin, damp with perspiration; he opens his cassock from the hem to the breastbone, giving me enough room to plunge my hands underneath and feel the smooth, hard planes of his chest through his thin cotton shirt.

And then– oh, he’s so deep, his cool fingers thrusting and massaging the oil into me until I’m writhing about on the desk in near desperation; my trousers are hanging from one of my feet, as he didn’t even take the time to remove my other shoe after he’d discarded the first; he’s hurried, panting, as near to desperation as I am, quickly withdrawing his hand to press the tip of his cock against me.

“Shall I teach you a more entertaining lesson?” he breathes into my ear, his entire body trembling atop mine.

“Go on, then,” I answer, trying in vain to keep my voice from wavering. “Teach me, Professor.”

He thrusts deep, pushing me half across the desktop; my fingers clutch at his shoulders, rumpling his robe; he folds his arms around me and pounds into me with a passion I’ve never seen in him before; I wrap my legs around his waist in an attempt to control the speed of things, but it’s no use… and soon enough I don’t care, anyway.

I’m panting his name, clinging to him with my whole body as the climax tears through me and spatters us both with hot fluid, and he gives me his all in return, growling against my neck in some inhuman language as he spends, once more filling me with heat from the inside out.

…..

“So tell me,” I say as he finishes tying my shoe, “What on earth came over you today, anyway?”

He smiles up at me and stands, walking over to the tea-cart to pour me a cup of Earl Grey. “Why, whatever do you mean, Young Master?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” I answer, taking the proffered cup and saucer. “You’ve been eying me all day, like a wolf sizing up a sheep.”

“Have I, then?” His smile gets a little wider and he holds out a dish of biscuits. “Would you care for a ginger-snap?”

I huff at him but take one anyway - I may be a bit annoyed with him just now, but I’m not so cross as to pass up his sweets. “I suppose you’ve gotten what you wanted? Do you feel better now?”

“I’m feeling quite well, thank you, Young Master.” He beams his charming, sunshine-bright smile at me again. “Quite well indeed.”

I sigh and munch the biscuit in resignation. For all I know, he could have been in some kind of demonic heat - do devils have a rutting season? “Oh, good… I’d hate for you to have to teach all your boring lessons when you’re feeling unwell.”

He suddenly bends down, pulls my hand away from my mouth, and kisses me so thoroughly that I nearly drop the remainder of the biscuit. Slowly, he withdraws, traps me with that burning gaze, and murmurs softly:

“I’ll remember that for tomorrow.”

I think I may have made a tactical error.

END.


End file.
